The season of prosperity was a fragile, beautiful thing. As Oakhaven's internal life flourished, I never forgot my own warning to my mother: an oasis attracts the thirsty. My greatest fear was not of another desperate raiding party, but of the organized, systematic greed of the kingdom that had cast me out. The kingdom of my father.
The confrontation came sooner than I expected.
It was a lookout on the eastern wall who raised the alarm. Not the cry of an imminent attack, but a call of confusion. A small party was approaching, not from the desert wastes, but along the old, forgotten Royal Road. They were not raiders. They moved with a disciplined, arrogant slowness. And at their head, whipping in the desert breeze, was a banner that made my blood run cold: the golden lion of the Royal House of Valerius.
I met them at the gates, flanked by Borin and a squad of our best-equipped guards, their iron spearpoints gleaming. There were five of them. The leader was a man named Lord Malakor, a minor nobleman whose face I vaguely recalled from the fringes of my father's court. He was draped in fine silks that were ridiculously out of place in the desert, his face a mask of practiced disdain. Beside him was a Royal Scribe, clutching a satchel of scrolls, and they were escorted by three Royal Knights in full, polished plate armor, their expressions bored and contemptuous. They were a vision of my old life, a life I had thought myself free of.
"So," Malakor began, his voice dripping with condescension as he took in our high walls and sturdy gate. "The rumors are true. The bastard prince has managed to build a rather impressive mud pile."
"Lord Malakor," I greeted him, my voice devoid of any emotion. "You are a long way from the perfumed halls of Aerthos. To what do we owe the honor?"
"Honor has nothing to do with it," he sneered. "We come on the King's business. His Majesty, in his infinite generosity, has allowed you to play at being a lord in this forgotten hovel for several seasons. He has now heard tales of… unexpected productivity. He has sent me to assess his asset."
His asset. The words were a slap in the face. This city, built with our blood, sweat, and ingenuity, was, in their eyes, merely a piece of property on the King's ledger.
I granted them entry, though every instinct screamed at me to shut the gates in their faces. I led them on a tour of Oakhaven. It was a calculated display of power. I showed them the overflowing granary, the pens filled with healthy livestock, the bustling marketplace where our new currency flowed freely. I let them see the new stone houses, the happy, well-fed children, the disciplined guards with their iron weapons.
The expressions on their faces shifted from contempt to disbelief, and then to a raw, naked greed. The scribe's quill scratched furiously across his parchment, documenting our wealth. Malakor's eyes, in particular, lingered on the Freighters, the iron tools, and the mountain of food in the granary.
We concluded the tour in my manor, which, while still modest, was clean and functional. I offered them seats on our sturdy wooden chairs.
"A truly remarkable transformation, Prince Castian," Malakor said, the word 'prince' now laced with a new, avaricious kind of respect. "Far exceeding anyone's expectations. His Majesty will be… pleased."
"Oakhaven provides for its own," I said coolly.
"Indeed," Malakor said, leaning forward, his mask of civility slipping. "And as Oakhaven is the property of the Crown, its provisions are also the provisions of the Crown. We have assessed your… surplus." He gestured to the scribe, who produced a freshly written scroll. "As a loyal vassal of the King, you will henceforth pay a royal tax. We have calculated a reasonable amount. Fifty percent of your annual grain harvest, and fifty percent of all iron ore and finished tools acquired through trade. It is to be delivered to the capital by a royal caravan, which will be dispatched next season."
The audacity of the demand was breathtaking. It was not a tax; it was a sentence of slow starvation. It would strip us of our security, our ability to trade, our entire future. It would reduce us to serfs, toiling for the benefit of a distant, indifferent king.
"That is not a tax, my Lord," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "That is plunder."
Malakor smiled, a cold, predatory expression. "It is the King's right. Refusal would be… unwise. It would be seen as an act of rebellion." He stood up, adjusting his silk robes. "You are, after all, still the bastard. Your position is tenuous. The King gave you this commandery. He can just as easily take it away, and you with it."
The threat was explicit. They would not just take our food; they would remove me, the source of Oakhaven's 'witch-craft', and leave my people to the mercy of a new, royal-appointed governor who would bleed them dry.
Borin's hand tightened on the hilt of his Oakhaven Blade. The air in the room grew thick with menace. My guards shifted their weight, their eyes fixed on the three Royal Knights.
"You have the King's decree," Malakor said, placing the scroll on the table. "We shall depart in the morning. I expect you will have made the sensible choice by then."
He and his retinue swept out of the room, leaving the scroll sitting on my table like a declaration of war. I stared at it, at the elegant script that spelled out our doom. The greatest threat to Oakhaven had finally arrived. It was not a sandstorm or a band of raiders. It was the crushing, indifferent, and entirely legitimate power of the kingdom I had once called home. My past had come to collect its debt, and the price was our future.